


The Magician

by halyo



Series: A Town Called San Adrestia [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 19th Century, Adventure, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Western, Blood and Injury, F/M, Gun Violence, Religious Content, Street & Stage Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halyo/pseuds/halyo
Summary: New Leicester, the Texas border1876'Claude von Riegan' is a fake name, but it looks real pretty written above the stage. He's doing rather well for himself, performing twice a week for the wealthy men that pass through the town. The longer he stays here, he hopes, the closer he'll be to putting his past behind him. It's working so far: Lorenz suspects nothing, Hilda is too busy flirting to care, and the rest of the audience is just here for a good show.But when Federal Marshal Eisner drops in without warning, Claude's past comes crashing down around him. With a bounty on his head and a gang of twelve bandits on his tail, Claude finds himself caught in a fight for his life - and the lives of everyone he holds dear.Part of a series, but can be read alone.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, Minor or Background Relationship(s), My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: A Town Called San Adrestia [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712188
Comments: 18
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

New Leicester, Disputed Territory

September 1876

‘Never play cards against a stage magician,’ his mother had warned him, many years ago. ‘You never know what they’ve got hiding up their sleeve.’

Of course, Claude knows exactly what he’s got hidden up there. The ace of spades, the jack of hearts, and a small blade four inches long but sharp as a razor. He knows what Lorenz has in his hand, too - the four of clubs has been folded in the top left corner, and the seven of hearts has a patch of ink faded in the centre. It’s a poor hand, but Claude doesn’t need to know the cards to see that. Lorenz is hardly an enigmatic man, no matter how hard he tries to be. His disappointment is plain to see.

“Was it a good show?” Lorenz asks, trying to make small talk. He inspects his cards with what he tries to pass off as a neutral stare, but he touches his temple as he always does when he’s on the back foot. Of all the people in this theatre to play cards against, Lorenz is by far the easiest to beat. And with _Hilda_ as an assistant, that really was saying something.

“Went without a hitch,” Claude replies politely, casting an eye over the few remaining patrons in the bar. The Gloucester Theatre is the only stage between Amarillo and Albuquerque, and it brought the wealthy to the town in droves. Claude made good money here, hidden behind a stage name. The more time he spent in the limelight, the less anyone suspected anything of him.

Besides, Hilda was the real star of the show. She was a natural at working the crowd, when she was so inclined to work at all. Even above the chatter, Claude can hear her giggling by the bar, a small crowd of men tripping over themselves to buy her drinks. From there she’ll pick the prettiest and drag him back to the dressing rooms, and that’ll be the last anyone will see of them until tomorrow morning.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Lorenz muses, staring at the cards on the table. He’s got an awful pair of cards in his hand, and it’s clear to see he’s stalling for time. “Someday, Claude, I _will_ find out how you do those damned tricks of yours, whether by misdirection or something more clandestine. Strip away the stagemanship and you are little more than a common crook. I will expose you and your duplicity to the world, you mark my words.”

Claude just smiles to himself, stretching out his shoulders and leaning back in his chair. “Ah, you know what they say, dear Lorenz. A magician never reveals his secrets.”

They do make an odd pair - Claude in his black-and-gold stage gear with hair slicked back for the show, Lorenz in that formal tailcoat that’s about a hundred years out of style, red rose pinned to his left breast. The star of the stage and the theatre owner, their respective airs of blatant disregard and suspicion, the two of them different in seemingly every way. Even the back-and-forth is their own brand of banter. It’s a game they play with each other, and Claude always ends up on top.

“You gonna play that hand?” Claude suggests, and Lorenz scowls at the call-out.

“Incorrigible,” he complains. Defeated, he tosses his cards onto the table with a flourish. “Truly, you are incorrigible. I do wonder why I bother with these sinful endeavours with you when all I seem to do is lose.”

He scowls at the wink Claude sends him in reply. “The truth is simple, my dear Lorenz. You like it. And that’s all there is to it.”

They play a few more rounds, exchanging jabs and retorts like a verbal game of chess. It’s never come to blows - or anything else, for that matter - and neither of them truly dislike the other, although they’re hardly complimentary about their foil. They exist in a fragile balance of professionalism and thinly-veiled contempt. Their business model needs them both to co-operate, so that’s exactly what they do. 

Not that Claude would call Lorenz a friend. He doesn’t trust the man enough for that, not yet.

“Say, ain’t that Marianne?” he asks as he shuffles the cards again, craning over the crowd to see. Sure enough, a petite woman hangs back with her uncle, her head bowed, her mouth shut. It was rare to see her outside of her family’s ranch, rarer still for her to be accompanied. She seems so out of place here, surrounded by people and noise. Her story was a tragic one, well-known around these parts. Over the last few years she’d grown more assured, but there was still an air of melancholy that surrounded her even on the brightest day.

Lorenz turns to follow Claude’s gaze, but he can’t get there in time.

“Marianne!” Hilda squeals, casting off her attendants and racing across the floor to her side. Marianne looks deeply uncomfortable as Hilda drags her into an embrace - how much has she had to drink already? Claude isn’t sure. However much, it’s enough that she shrieks over the background noise of the patrons. It wasn’t uncommon for Hilda to talk drunken nonsense, nor was it uncommon for her to try and impress a pretty girl. It _was_ uncommon for her to succeed.

“Of course, they’re only here to see me,” she’s saying, drink in one hand, the other already wrapped around Marianne’s shoulders. “I’ll be a star one day. I’ll have everything I could ever want. Dresses and shoes, love and money and fame. And the prettiest men and women to wait on me hand and foot. You’ll see, Marianne. I’ll never be needing anything again.” Hilda kisses Marianne on the cheek. However intoxicated Claude thought she was, she’s obviously gone far beyond that. “But that’s enough about little old me,” she croons. “How have you been? And how’s that wonderful big strong man in your life?”

If it was possible for Marianne to look even more uncomfortable than before, she manages that and more. She shakes her head, staring at her shoes. “Dorte is quite well, thank you. But you should not be around me. It wouldn’t be right--”

“No, no, Marie,” Hilda says, dissolving into a fit of giggles. “You’re sweet. Fuck what everyone else says. I don’t care about them, and you shouldn’t neither. Fuck ‘em, I say.” She raises her glass to the roof, calling over the crowd. Every eye in the bar is on them, Claude’s included. “Fuck ‘em, Marianne!”

“Oh, this is unbearable,” Lorenz announces, getting to his feet with a sweep of his hair and a flick of that long coat of his. “Truly, it is some heinous form of torture. I must intervene.”

And intervene he does, crossing the bar and taking Marianne by the hand. Gently, he pulls her away from Hilda, from the gossip and the stares that follow. Marianne’s face softens into something that could almost be a smile, until Lorenz leans down to kiss her fingers, ostentatious as ever.

The stares return with a vengeance.

“Ah, sweet Marianne,” he announces to the world. At the sudden attention, Marianne goes back to staring at the ground, but Lorenz is undeterred. Gently, he threads the red rose from the lapel of his coat, tucking it into the braided crown of her hair. He stands back as if to admire his work. “It is a fine rose, but it pales in comparison to your beauty. If only there was a gift decadent enough for a lady of your fine elegance and grace.”

Looking on in amusement, Claude rolls his eyes and smiles to himself. He feels for Marianne, he really does. It’s painful enough just _watching_ Lorenz parade around like a show-pony, never mind being on the receiving end of it.

Lorenz had been trying for years to win Marianne’s heart with ever-more flamboyant displays of affection each time. It doesn’t seem to be working; the way to her heart was a difficult road, far from grand gestures. Of course, Claude had given his two cents, but Lorenz wasn’t the kind of man to heed his advice. Instead, he was convinced that he needed more: more extravagant, more frequent, more, more, _more_. And the more he did, the further he pushed her away. It seems Lorenz is many things, but perceptive is not one of them.

Hilda folds her arms, making a high-pitched whine in irritation. She pouts, calling for Lorenz to “Give her back, you horse-faced fool.”

She gets a glare in reply. Lorenz’s voice is clear, even above the music that fills the air. “When you show a little decorum, Hilda, I might perhaps _consider_ the idea. Until then, keep your hands to yourself and entertain the men like the common harlot you are.”

As they bicker, Marianne stares at the floor like she wants it to swallow her whole.

Claude leans back in his chair and swings his feet up onto the table, content to watch the fireworks. It’s not long before he’s interrupted, though, his entertainment cut short.

“Ain’t no rest for the wicked, eh?” he asks, watching the figure in his peripheral vision.

“This seat taken?” comes a low, gravelly voice, and Claude looks up at the man approaching a little too quickly for his liking.

The man is tall, maybe six foot six, hair worn long and bedraggled. His clothes are the colour of the dust outside, worn from years of neglect and faded in the sun. His head twitches every few seconds. A nervous tic, perhaps, or maybe something more sinister. True enough, Claude catches a glimpse of the wilderness in his eyes as he approaches.

“What can I do for you, stranger?” Claude asks carefully, moving his arm so the hilt of his knife slides into his palm. He waits for the man to come to him, already assessing him for weakness. Tall, sure, with a good six inches’ reach over Claude. Armed, too, that much is obvious. Just the sight of him makes Claude nervous, not that he’d dare to show it.

“I’m looking for a feller,” the man starts, “last seen round these parts. Khalid al--” 

He trails off. He glares at the photograph in his hand, reading the text scribbled in familiar handwriting. It takes him a second to decide how to say it, and then he butchers the name so badly it’s almost unrecognisable. 

“Whatever. Word’s come from on high that they’re looking for him.”

He drops the photograph down on the table in front of Claude, gesturing for him to take a look.

“Well,” Claude replies, resting his hands at the back of his neck with feigned indifference. He winks again, his lips playing into an easy smile. He’s practised it a thousand times, but it still feels far too forced for his liking. Instead, his eyes scan the crowd so he doesn’t have to meet the man’s accusing stare. “If I knew of a man with that name, I’d sure co-operate with the law. What do you take me for, sir, some kind of scoundrel?”

For all his teasing, the photograph on the table is pretty damning. The hair is different - shorter, scruffier, that godawful braid displayed prominently on the right hand side. Sure, the boy in the photograph is younger, clean-shaven, not yet a man, but even many years later the face is unmistakable.

Claude remembers the photo being taken. He’d grown in the time since, six long years of surviving in a hostile world that wanted nothing to do with him. He’d caused his fair share of trouble along the way, sure, but what man hadn’t?

Seems that trouble has finally caught up with him.

The man scowls, looking Claude over. His voice is a growl. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Claude von Riegan.” The answer comes quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. Claude palms the knife up his sleeve, watching as the man’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “May I be asking yours in return, sir?”

“You can call me Jeritza,” he says, that twitch returning all of a sudden. It’s a lie, and it’s not a good one at that. “That your name by birth, Mister Riegan?” 

“I could ask the same of you, ‘Jeritza’. You got reason to believe that ain’t my name?”

“Maybe I do, boy.” He leans in close, close enough that Claude can see the sickness in him, the hollowness of his cheeks and the yellowing of his eyes. His skin is stretched taut over his skull, his body a walking corpse. Whoever the man is, he isn’t well. “You ain’t a local to this town,” he states, voice full of certainty.

Claude leans back in his chair again, casting a glance over his shoulder to the others. It’s a conversation he’s had many a time, always with that same disdain behind it. “I’ve been living ‘round these parts near four years now,” he starts, inspecting the fingernails on one hand. Jeritza goes to protest, but Claude cuts him off before he can get there. “Oh, I know what you’re asking, don’t you worry. To answer your real question, sir, I ain’t ‘a local to this town’. I was born in a land out east, if that satisfies you.”

He gets only a scowl for his trouble. “Like, Cherokee country?”

Claude can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, a wry smile on his lips. He tilts his head to the side, fixing Jeritza with a lazy stare. “A little further east than that.”

“You think this is a joke, boy?”

Hands slam down on the table. Jeritza’s eyes twitch again as he glares at Claude, breathing heavily between clenched teeth, lips peeled back in a growl. 

The knife sits heavy in Claude’s palm.

But despite Jeritza’s anger, Claude doesn’t rise to the bait. He keeps his voice even, feigning his disdain. He looks over his fingernails again, but his eyes never leave the gun strapped to his opponent’s hip.

“Oh, I do try to see the funny side of everything,” he says nonchalantly. “Makes life worth living, you know--”

A snarl. “You and me, outside. We’ll see who’s laughing after we settle this like men--” 

A gunshot echoes through the bar. The music stops, a few of the women squeal, and all eyes zone in on the direction of the noise. 

Then a voice, higher than a man’s but low for a woman, speaking with total authority. 

“Federal Marshal Eisner!” comes the call. “Leave him, Jeritza. You’re relieved of your duty.”

A figure stands in the door, smoking gun in hand. She’s not tall, even by Claude’s standards, but she’s got curves for days and iron in her posture that wards even the most inquisitive of men away. Her hair is left loose, framing her face just so; her expression is even and impassive. Her eyes are hidden by the wide brim of her hat, but he knows exactly what’s waiting for him under there.

Jeritza’s fingers twitch above his holster, but Byleth calls to him again.

“I told you to leave him.” She’s never been one for small talk, and now is no exception. “This is a federal matter. My authority stands. Best not fuck with me.”

“We're in New Mexico,” Jeritza hisses. “That ain't a state. Means this is outta your jurisdiction.”

Byleth shrugs, unimpressed. That stoic expression never changes. She walks up to him, that gaze unyielding, the barrel of her six-shooter still smoking. Despite the huge height difference, she could stare down any man, and Jeritza is no better. “Take it up with Lady Rhea, then. I’ll be needing that photograph. And get outta here, ‘fore you make me do something I regret.”

Even after all that time away, she hasn’t changed a bit.

Jeritza pauses, but eventually her glare gets the better of him. He scowls right back, but after a few painful seconds of standoff, his hand eases from his weapon, instead pulling a cigarette from his case and placing it between his teeth. He stares Byleth in the eye and bites down, hard, but she doesn’t flinch.

It’s only when he’s swept out the door that Byleth dares to relax, even a little. She slides her gun back into its holster, turning her attention to Claude.

“It’s been a while--” she starts, but she doesn’t manage anything else.

Claude greets her with a brilliant smile, his arms outstretched as if going for an embrace. “Teach!” he calls, unable to stifle his excitement. “What brings a woman like you to this little backwater town?”

“You.”

Byleth sits down across from him, folds her hands, and says little else.

“Four years away still ain’t made you much of a chatterbox, hm?” he asks, reaching for his cards and starting to shuffle. “A lady of few words, as always. My, I’ve missed you. Ain’t missed that attitude, though. I could get better conversation outta _Lorenz._ Not that he shares your good looks, mind, but--”

She grabs his hand. Once so sure, his fingers slip, and the cards go fluttering to the floor. He stares at her for a moment, and he can feel those huge, haunted eyes assessing him. It’s rare that Claude feels self-conscious, but something about her is different, it always has been. She’s the exception to every unwritten rule he has, a messy blip on an otherwise spotless record.

“Stop running, Khalid.”

Her voice catches him off-guard. A shiver runs down his spine. He hasn’t heard that name in a very long time, not like that. Not with the weight of their shared past behind it, with the gentle disapproval in her voice.

“Why are you here?” he says softly, lowering his voice and leaning over the table so no snooping ears can listen in. “And it’s ‘Claude’, here. These are good folk. They don’t need to know _all_ my dirty little secrets, now.”

He hopes he’s retaining at least a little of his composure. It doesn’t feel like it.

She’s done to him what she does to everyone; pried him open in front of her, laid him bare, made him speak his truth. Claude’s well aware that she does it. He’s also acutely aware that even _he_ isn’t immune to her charm, that he’s unravelling in front of her by the second. He feels almost naked in her presence, all that he is stripped away until only the core remains.

If Byleth is aware of the effect she’s having on him, she doesn’t react. Instead, she picks the photo off the table, a hint of a smile daring to cross her lips as she takes the image in. But her face falls back to that blank slate in the blink of an eye, any sentimentality over their shared past long-gone. She folds the photograph, tucking it into her breast pocket. 

“You’re picking up enemies,” she says. “No wonder. You’ve been lying to people. About who you are. _What_ you are. Even to me.”

Claude’s stomach turns at her words. He puts his hands up behind his head, swinging back in his chair to prop his feet up on the table. “Yeah, I gotta have a few secrets. Keeps people on their toes. I got that man-of-mystery air to maintain, you know?” He drops his voice even further, well aware of the eyes on him. “And when I find a pretty girl and disclose something minor like, oh, I don’t know, ‘I’m actually the crown prince of a small city-state in the Near East’, they’ll think they’ve won the key to my heart. It’s a neat little trick. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Are you trying to impress me?”

“Not in the slightest, Teach.”

Byleth stares at him for a while, just taking him in. Claude does the same, looking over the face he remembers so fondly, the face that's hardly changed at all. It seems like they're all growing up, moving on. But she remains the same. The same face, the same clothes, everything. He's not sure where she'd gone, but it's clear to see she's been travelling: her hair is matted with dust and sweat, her clothes dirtied and stained in all the usual places. Even from here he can smell horses and sweat, and gunpowder beneath it. And the wallet at her belt is thin - empty, he'd bet.

There are four rounds left in the chamber of her gun. Aside from her dramatic entrance, it's been fired again, and recently.

“Why’d you run away?” she asks, cutting to the chase. She reaches across the table for his hand. But he pulls away, still not ready to disclose his answers. That’s not something he wants to discuss. Not now, and possibly not ever.

“A lot of reasons,” he says quietly. “I ain’t talking about them here.”

“But I guess you figured your father wants you home.”

He presses his lips together. He’d recognised the handwriting on the photograph, sure, but he’d hoped that was a one-in-a-million coincidence. Could he return back there? He isn’t sure. It was a long way to go for nothing more concrete than a promise. Besides, he’s built a life out here, a life he’s not yet ready to let go of. 

Not that he says any of that, instead playing up his self-professed air of mystery with a dazzling smile that never quite seems sincere enough to convince her.

“Oh, they ain’t ready for me yet,” he says offhandedly, looking over the people he calls his friends. As hopeless as most of them are, Claude couldn’t find a better group of men and women if his life depended on it. Would he find that on the other side of a very wide sea? Probably, but that doesn’t mean he wants to leave it behind. “One day, mayhaps. But I got business here, you know. Schemes to dream up, money to make, people to please. It’s a good life, settled down and making an honest living. You should try it sometime.”

Byleth makes a quiet _hmph_ noise, nodding in acknowledgement. Lord knows they’ve had their disagreements in the past, but it was rare she’d ever raise her voice. She quickly changes the subject, much to Claude’s relief.

“You heard from Dimitri recently?” she asks, and his relief quickly turns to dread. He shakes his head, cautious.

“Not in years,” he replies slowly, looking Byleth over for any scant trace of emotion. Whatever news she brings, it’s not the pleasant kind.

“He got shot,” she says quietly, but Claude interrupts her before she can finish.

“What?” he asks, unable to stop his eyes from widening, his throat closing up in fear. “When was this? Is he--”

Byleth nods. “Lost an eye, but he’s alive. Two years ago, and then some.”

“I--” Claude starts, but for once he’s lost for words. Nothing he goes to say seems right. “Thank you,” he says eventually, nodding his head as he processes the information. “Thank you for telling me. I should write to him. It’s been too long.”

“He ain’t the man he once was,” she warns.

“Sure, right. Ruined his pretty face and all--”

“It runs a lot deeper than that.” She folds her arms and scowls, lips pressed together in thought. “But that’s enough about him. I came here to warn you, _Claude.”_ The slight emphasis on his name would be lost on anyone else, but he hears her meaning clear as day. “The lawmen ain’t the only ones looking for you. There’s a hefty reward on your return, and we don’t much mind the condition you’re in.”

His heart tightens again. “That don’t sound good.”

“It don’t sound good at all. Word says there’s a gang of twelve men after your head. Lead by the man they call Nemesis. You’ve probably heard of them.”

“The name rings a bell.” He doesn’t want to think too hard about it. Still, he knows the stories. Tales of massacres, of families torn apart, of streets running red with blood, all at that man's hand. Claude smiles, again, but he can't even try to make it convincing, this time. “Bad news, right?

Byleth nods, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“You’ll stay to help, though,” he asks, but he already knows the answer. Just as he’d feared, Byleth shakes her head, slowly getting back to her feet. 

“I’m just passing through,” she explains. “I gave you fair warning. But you cost me a day’s ride already, and I’m needed in Santa Fe. Official business.” 

“Don’t tease me like this, Teach--”

“I’ll return as soon as I can. I tried to throw them off the scent, but be prepared. I’ll be back by high noon on Monday. You have my word.”

“Stay,” Claude blurts out, the words leaving his lips before he’s realising what he’s saying. “Just the one night. You can always crash at mine. Relive what happened in the church tower--”

“No, thank you,” Byleth says, any feeling in her voice buried deep. She picks her hat from the table and replaces it on her head, touching the brim to him as if to say goodbye. “I've made good with my past, Khalid. Perhaps you should do the same.”

Her chair scrapes the floor as she leaves, taking only a photograph and leaving Claude with more questions than answers. He swears under his breath, but he doesn’t try to stop her. She’s as much a force of nature as the hot sun or the summer storms, unstoppable and mysterious. There’s nothing he can say to make her stay. It'd be like trying to bargain with the wind.

At least with the wind, he'd have a hope of getting a reply.

Lorenz comes to stand next to him, watching the marshal leave without another word. He glances down at Claude, raising an eyebrow in disdain. 

“And what, pray tell, what all that commotion about?”

Claude shakes his head. His mind is a mess of incoherent thoughts all vying for dominance, but one thought juts above all others, eclipsing everything else.

Nemesis is coming for him. _Nemesis._

He can't unleash that horror on the town. It's a death sentence for him and everyone that stands with him.

"Well?" Lorenz asks, expectant. Eyes vacant, Claude takes a long sip from the tumbler of whiskey left on the table, before murmuring a quiet prayer for forgiveness. He's sworn off the drink, but he figures he can make an exception for tonight.

His voice drops to a whisper.

“I gotta get outta here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy!
> 
> In true Deer style, his fic is a little different from the rest of the series, in that it's less "rough 'n' ready Western" and more "classy late-19th-century living". That being said, expect horses and gunfights a-plenty in the next couple of chapters!
> 
> Got any thoughts? Drop your comments below!
> 
> See you soon! 🤠


	2. Chapter 2

The morning light peeks through the shutters, and Claude buries his face in the pillow. His head aches like someone has taken a pickaxe to his skull and hadn’t been all that gentle about it.

Outside the window the world carries on as it always does: the chatter of people down the main street, the whinny of the horses tied up outside, the _clunk-clunk-screech_ of a train coming to a halt at the station. The room is lighter than it should be, the smell of powder and perfume heavy in the air. And the pillow is covered in hair, far too long and fair to be his own. 

Which all points to one conclusion: this isn’t his room.

He groans to himself.

“Hilda?” he asks, already dreading the answer.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” comes a sugar-sweet voice from the corner of the room. Hilda is already up and fully clothed, sat by her dressing table and preening herself in front of the mirror.

Claude swears. If Hilda is awake and dressed then it’s likely he’s missed most of the morning. “Did we--”

She laughs, mostly to herself. “No, nothing happened last night. But I had to haul your ass up here instead of getting to talk to that cute rancher from Faerghus.” She pouts, every inch the diva. “You’re a damned liability, you know that?”

Embarrassed, Claude drops his head back into the bed. “I don’t drink,” he complains, his words muffled by the pillows.

“No shit,” Hilda replies. She flicks her hair over her shoulder, checking her appearance in the mirror again. “You had three glasses and you were out like a goddamn light. You know, I reckon even Ignatz could outdrink you.”

_“Ignatz?”_

“I meant what I said, Claude.” 

She finishes preening in the mirror, slowly turning her attention back to him, still sprawled like a lead weight in her bed. There’s a burning question in her eyes, and she stares at him with her head tilted to one side, the way a sparrow eyes up a grub in the dirt.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Claude asks, but Hilda just giggles again, hiding behind her hand. 

“So who was she?”

“Who?”

“That lady you were talking to last night. Little Miss femme fatale. Came in all dramatic. You know I ain’t a jealous girl, Claude, but I don’t like sharing the spotlight.”

Everything comes crashing down at once. Byleth, Nemesis, the thousand-dollar reward on his head. He was so sure he'd covered his tracks, let the trail go cold, scrubbed himself clean so he could start again. And it had worked, for a while. He'd cut his hair, changed his name, grown out his beard. But it seems he can't run forever. 

Oh, the hubris.

“You mean Byleth?”

 _“Byleth?”_ she repeats, slightly bemused. It’s like she was expecting a different answer, a different name. 

Claude nods nonetheless. "You heard me right. Byleth Eisner is a federal marshal of the United States and allied territories. She's got the authority to come and go as she pleases, dishing out justice wherever she walks." 

"A lady marshal?" Hilda blurts out, clearly unconvinced. She raises her voice in disdain, stamping her feet against the floor. "Don't lie to me." 

"I ain't lying, Hilda, and I'll swear that to the god above." 

"You don't even _believe_ in God."

Claude smiles to himself again, despite the pain in his head and sickness in his stomach. He rolls over in bed to stare up at the ceiling. With a yawn, he presses the heel of his palm into his eyes, trying to clear the tiredness away. But the sunlight is painfully bright, and he covers his face with his forearms to shield himself. He flicks his wrist, gesturing with his hand. "Ah, you know me too well, my dear. But it's the truth. Marshal Eisner, just like her old man before her. He learnt his trade fighting for the North, and he passed his skills down to his daughter. Being one of the fairer sex sure as hell don’t slow her down, and she's passed every test with flying colours. Ain't never lost a mark either, though she prefers to bring 'em in dead, if you know what I mean. She ain't one for chit-chat."

"She sounds like one helluva woman." 

“Sure is.” Claude shakes his head, then runs his hands through his hair to tidy it up again. The thoughts of bounty hunters and outlaws make him uneasy, but he forces himself to think strategically to find a solution. The church, if he was going to fight, hide up in the tower and pick them off one by one as they ride into town. He’d need allies, though, people he can trust. And Byleth said she’d be back by high noon tomorrow, but that might well be too late--

“You ain’t told me what she is to _you._ ” Hilda interrupts his train of thought. “This ‘Byleth’. What’s a man like you doing with a woman like her?”

“Oh, it’s a long story.” It’s not the answer she’s looking for, and Claude can’t help but roll his eyes as she whimpers at the back of her throat to show her displeasure. “Alright, alright, so we’re old friends. She’s like a teacher to me, someone that took me in when no-one else would. I was at a loose end, she helped me find direction. Gave me hope again. I suppose you gotta meet her to understand. I’ll introduce you two, when all this is over."

If he’s still standing after all this, that is.

“When _what_ is over?” Hilda asks, suddenly concerned. “What ain’t you telling me, Claude?”

There’s an awful lot that he isn’t telling her, but that’s a conversation for another time. Instead, he reaches for his pocketwatch, left on the bedside table. It takes a long while for the numbers to come into focus, and once again he curses his poor tolerance to anything they served behind the bar. 

Eventually the hands swim into focus: nearly ten o’clock. He’s wasted most of the morning. And he’s going to have to move pretty quick if he wants to catch the train when it comes in.

He shakes his head. “I’ll explain over lunch. The Stag Inn, you know the one. I gotta round up some friends, and then I’ll tell you everything.”

“You’d better.”

After a few more minutes spent lamenting his decision to spend last night at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, Claude rolls out of bed, cleans himself up, and dresses as quickly as he can. Why he had a set of spare clothes stashed in Hilda’s wardrobe was a question best not asked. Once his hair and beard are presentable, he makes his excuses and disappears out the back, following the route that’ll hide him away from the public eye. But it seems like half the town has decided to detour around the back of the theatre, and for all that he tries to keep his head down, the stares and whispered comments follow him like a shadow.

He’d walked the walk of shame many a time, and this is no different.

Outside those four walls, the streets of New Leicester open up in front of him. He whistles as he wanders down the main street, picking up a few things from the stores as he goes. The mid-morning rush is already underway now the church has finished with its service, the dusty earth warming beneath his feet. The air is thick with the stench of horses and smoke, the calls of street hawkers and prostitutes selling their wares. The street is pitted with wagon-ruts underfoot. Claude has to watch every step he takes, just in case. 

“Gonna be a scorcher out,” he says to no-one in particular, pulling up his collar against the sun. He took to the heat better than most of the townsfolk, but a little bit of caution never hurt anyone. 

Simple wooden buildings line either side of the road, curtains thrown open and windows pushed wide to get a draft through. The worst of the summer heat has passed, but it’s still swelteringly hot out, even in the shade cast by the buildings. He catches his reflection in the glass of the barber-shop window, then winks suggestively at the boy sweeping up inside. 

Claude can’t dwell long, though. He’s got errands to run. As much as he’d like to spend all day flirting with anyone that’d give him a second glance, the clock is ticking and he doesn’t have time to waste.

He passes the horses tied up outside the saloon, then tips his hat to the sheriff stood in the doorway to his office. The shopkeeper at the armoury has plenty of questions for him, but after ten minutes’ intense haggling, he walks away only thirty dollars lighter with the best rifle in the store across his back.

There’s a girl waiting at the train station, wearing a fine dress in purple and white silk. Her hair is neatly tucked into her cap, but a shock of white pokes out from underneath. She clutches a bag against her chest. But despite the classy T-strap heels and expensive riding jacket, she’s every inch the child that Claude remembers.

He greets her with a smile and a nod of the head, then a frown.

“Lysithea,” he says quietly, “you got something in your hair.”

“What?” she asks, going to fix it, but Claude sweeps in with a smile instead.

“Allow me,” he says, flicking a quarter into his palm and brandishing it in front of her face with a flourish. 

“Claude!” she grumbles, stamping at the ground. “I’m not a child anymore! Don’t treat me like one. ‘Sides, you probably had it up your sleeve anyway--”

He shakes his head, then holds up his hands, suddenly empty. One of the two coins slides hidden down his sleeve, the metal cold against his arm. “It’s actually in your pocket,” he teases, and Lysithea scowls, checking the pocket of her jacket. Sure enough, there’s the second coin slipped neatly inside, its silver shine dulled with age.

“What?” she asks, mystified, then looks up at him again with her face screwed up even tighter than before. “Stop doing that.”

Being a stage magician sure has its perks. He shrugs, smiles, throws his arms out in surrender. “Well, when you take better care of your money, maybe I will.”

Lysithea pouts, making an annoyed whining noise that Hilda would be proud of. She turns up her nose in distaste. It makes her seem that much younger than her twenty years, more like the teenage girl he met all those years ago. Claude almost expects her to stick out her tongue in reply, but she maintains her composure.

“You going somewhere?” he asks, gesturing to the bag she’s clutching in her hands, and suddenly her expression drops to total seriousness again.

She nods. “There’s a physician in El Paso,” she says quietly. “There’s word he can treat my condition. Of course, it’s all speculation, and there’s no guarantee--”

“But there’s hope,” he finishes, placing one hand on each of her shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. “Oh, kid, I’m so proud of you--”

“You’re treating me like a child again!”

“My bad.” Claude steps back in defeat, giving her space. He knows plenty of the folk around here treat her like a fragile porcelain doll, small and dainty and only one wrong step away from shattering beyond repair. As fun as it is to wind her up about it, he tries to give her the respect that she deserves. She’s proved her worth to this town, same as anyone. 

Still, something doesn’t sit right with him.

“There ain’t no train to El Paso today,” he remarks, slowly putting the pieces together. “Which means you ain’t waiting for a train. You’re waiting for a _person.”_

Lysithea goes bright red. “That’s none of your business,” she snaps, suddenly embarrassed. 

Claude can’t help himself. He drops his voice, letting the grin spread across his face. “Who’s the lucky feller, Lys?”

“I told you it’s none of your business!”

He goes to speak again but he’s cut off by the horn of a steam train, the heavy _huff_ and _clank_ as the black smear on the horizon takes shape, nearing at almost-impossible speed. A plume of dirty grey smoke trails back towards the scrubland beyond. The Seiros Pacific railroad stretched as far north as Chicago and as far west as the California coast, but it deigned this little town important enough to warrant a terminal of its own. It was a lucrative business, shipping everything from cattle to gold out to the very edge of the world and back. With the railroad came trade, and with trade came money, and with money came people.

The train screeches to a halt at the end of the line, a great iron beast coming to rest. After a minute or so the passengers start to disembark, travellers and traders spilling out onto the platform. But Claude isn’t interested in the passengers, oh no. It’s the crew he needs to talk to.

He waits until the crowds have dispersed, leaning back against the bleached wood of the station building. New Leicester is the changeover point as Texas becomes New Mexico, where the train swaps out its crew on the way to god-knows-where.

And sure enough, there they are.

The two men couldn’t be more different if they tried: Ignatz, quiet and bespectacled and dressed to the nines; Raphael, a beast of a man clad in coarse fabrics and leather. There’s maybe ten inches and close to a hundred pounds between them, but as always, the two are inseparable.

The sight is familiar and welcoming as ever. Claude greets them with the tilt of his hat and a devilish smile, trying to catch their attention.

But something is different this time. Normally they're all smiles upon returning home, buoyed by the thought of seeing their families after days or even weeks apart. Now, though, Ignatz is white as a sheet, knees visibly trembling as he steps down onto the platform. Raphael is a step or two behind him, close enough to sweep in and catch him should he fall.

That’s not the only sign, though. Ignatz’s ever-present pocketwatch is missing from his waistcoat, and Raphael is sporting a black eye and broken nose that definitely weren’t there when they left ten days ago. The bruising is freshly purple-blue, no more than a day or two old.

The sight of it makes bile rise in Claude’s throat.

“What happened?” he asks, falling into step at their side.

“See, we was just a-minding our own business,” Raphael starts, but Ignatz shakes his head. His hands are black with soot and coal dust, his usually-immaculate attire crumpled and dirty.

“A gang of twelve men attacked us, out at the edge of Brigid lands. Boarded the train, held the passengers at gunpoint, and robbed us dry. I don’t really want to talk about it--”

“When was this?”

“Two days ago.”

Claude tracks the railroad back in his mind. If those twelve men are Nemesis’ gang, they’ll be coming from the southwest, swinging up over the Myrddin Bridge. The edge of the natives’ land was three days’ hard riding away. Take off the two days since, and that means--

“Tomorrow,” he whispers, then spits a curse.

Nemesis really is coming. In fact, he’s on his way.

Ignatz is clearly shaken from his encounter. His hands are still trembling, and he removes his glasses, polishing the lenses to try and occupy his hands. Behind him, Raphael lies a hand on his shoulder, but the big guy’s enthusiasm is starting to burn low. Claude looks the two of them over, trying to push his own apprehension aside. 

Still, he knows exactly what they need.

“You eaten?” he asks, and Raphael’s eyes light up like a dog at a butcher’s shop. Claude grins in return; they may be simple folk, but that goofy smile is infectious. Even Ignatz manages a small smile, not that it does much to reassure anyone. “Come on,” he offers, gesturing with his head. “We’ll go to The Stag, get some food in you both. I’ll pay.”

If he _is_ about to meet a terrible fate at the hands of the man they call Nemesis, this is the least he can do to show his friends some appreciation. He can’t take his money with him, not where he’s going.

Of course, it’s also as good a place as any to break the news.

A rattlesnake basks in the sun outside the station. One beady eye watches him as he passes. It hisses with a flicker of that forked tongue, but its rattle stays silent. Claude gives it a wide berth as they walk, just in case.

The food in The Stag Inn isn’t great, but it’s not bad, not in any sense of the word. They meet Hilda at the door, glaring through the window at the couple sat inside. Even from here, Lorenz’s voice carries across the dining hall. It makes the hairs stand up at the back of Claude’s neck, and not in a good way.

The service is quick enough, and everyone seems to be in better spirits with a good helping of hot food. The dining hall is all but empty this time of day, bar a few besuited travellers and gossiping housewives taking coffee. The only presence of note is the man still trying his hardest to woo Marianne over a bottle of wine, his attempts as excruciating as ever to watch.

“So you got an announcement to make?” Hilda asks, but she’s cut short by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Claude drops his head into his hands at the sound. 

This is the _last_ person he wants listening in.

Lorenz gestures to the empty seats at the table. “Mind if I join you?” he asks, Marianne hovering at his right hand. Claude nods, letting the rest of them settle down and finish off their food before he says anything he might regret.

“So I ain’t been exactly honest with you folk,” he says eventually, and Ignatz drops his cutlery to the table in shock.

“For real?” he asks, voice trembling.

“The man is little more than a professional con artist,” Lorenz replies, his eyes never leaving the glass of wine in his hand. “Is anyone really surprised?”

“Lorenz,” Marianne says simply, placing her hand against his. “Please, let him speak.”

Claude nods his thanks at her, but she quickly drops her gaze to the floor. He doesn’t linger too long on her; he knows she doesn’t like the attention.

“As I’m sure y'all know, being a border town means we get more than our fair share of outlaws passing through. Sometimes they’re running, sometimes they’re just looking to start again. Most of them have blood on their hands, one way or another. Ain’t many folk out here that don’t.”

Lorenz twirls the wine around in his glass. “And I suppose you’re one of those ne’er-do-wells my mother warned me about.”

This is it. The moment of truth.

Claude presses his lips together and nods. He speaks quietly enough that no-one outside the table can hear. 

“There’s a bounty on my head,” he starts. “A thousand dollars for my return, dead or alive. Word is the man they call Nemesis has got wind of who I am. He’s coming for me, of that I’m sure.”

He lets the words sink in, watching the five process what he’s just said.

And then the table erupts into chaos.

Hilda screams something about _‘how dare you lie to me?’_ , while Ignatz is clearly panicking, stammering unintelligible nonsense as he tries to justify it to himself. Lorenz smiles smugly as he postulates on all of the possible crimes that Claude might have committed, making sure everyone within earshot hears. Raphael’s booming laughter echoes around the dining hall, until he realises it’s not a joke and the laughter stops as quickly as it started.

Even Marianne lets out a short, sharp gasp, her eyes like a startled rabbit’s.

“Please, tell me it’s not true?” she whispers, but all Claude can do is shake his head.

His shoulders suddenly feel very heavy, and he has to fight the urge to slump forward onto the table and let his head drop. His voice is lacking its usual knowing edge, his eyes dull. Now would be a great time to crack a smile and shrug it off as he always does, but Claude can’t do that. 

He takes a deep breath in, then out. Once the questions have stopped and the five have fallen back into silence, he purses his lips and tries to speak. The first word comes out hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again.

“I’ve done many things in my short life, not all of them strictly legal. But the crime they accuse me of? I’m innocent, and you got my word on that.”

“Your word ain’t worth _shit,_ ” Hilda interrupts, but Claude shuts her down with a sharp look.

“Trust me on this, Hilda.”

“I ain’t got no reason to trust you.” She folds her arms and pouts as she so often does when looking for attention. For once, though, her anger is real.

Ignatz pushes his glasses up his nose, leaning over the table. He’s barely touched his food, and Raphael is already eyeing up his leftovers. Still, the young engineer is as cautious as ever, a mouse in front of a trap ready to scurry away at the first sign of danger.

“What crime did you commit?” he asks quietly. “Please answer me honest, Claude.”

Claude clears his throat again, then lowers his voice. He traces his fingers across the wood grain in the table, the knots and ridges worn shiny-smooth. He’s playing for time, and he knows it. But he can’t quite bring himself to say what he’s hiding, to bring his old sins to light.

“It don’t matter,” he says eventually. “I’m innocent. All I ask of you is that you stand by me. It’s a lot to ask of you folks, I know that. You can say no at any time and I won’t think no less of you. But you’d best make your decision sharpish. If what Ignatz and Raph say is correct, then the twelve will be here sometime tomorrow morning.”

“You should run,” Lorenz offers, and Hilda reluctantly nods in time with him.

“As much as I hate agreeing with horse-face, I’d hightail it outta here if I were you. You'd best not show your face 'round these parts no more.”

Claude shakes his head. “It ain’t that simple,” he says, lowering his voice even further. “Y'all know what Nemesis did out in Torment Valley?”

He’s met with only blank stares and a few shakes of the head. Marianne’s gaze never leaves her lap.

“Take it that’s a no, then.” With a soft sigh, Claude runs his hand through his hair. This is going to be tough news to break. “There’s a valley in the highlands out west. The natives call it Ailell. It’s real hot out there. No shelter, no water. Still founded a settlement when someone struck gold, nearly a hundred people living in that place. But Nemesis rode into town one day, shooting and burning and bleeding the place dry. Weren’t much left of the town by the time his gang was done with it.”

Hilda scowls. “You’re quite the storyteller, Claude, but I still don’t get why you don’t run away with your tail between your legs like the dog you are.”

“I gotta defend this place.” Saying it makes it so much more real, and cold fear starts to settle inside him. “Like it or not, New Leicester is my home, and none of the good folks here need to get hurt. But if I don’t stand up, Nemesis is gonna kill every man, woman and child in this town. Don’t matter if I’m in it or not.”

“So we fight back!” Raphael declares, slamming a fist down on the table. Drinks slop over the rim of their glasses, both Ignatz and Hilda let out a surprised squeal, and Marianne closes her eyes and whispers a prayer as if she’s staring death in the face.

Lorenz simply clears his throat and adjusts his cufflinks in distaste. He opens his mouth to speak, but a voice halts him before he can agree.

“Heard there was gonna be fighting involved,” comes a voice, and then a second pair of hands slam down into the table. Any drinks that survived Raphael’s initial onslaught give up the ghost and spill out onto the table. Lorenz mutters bloody murder beneath his breath, mopping up the mess with his handkerchief.

Claude follows the voice. The woman isn’t too much older than the others, red hair swept in a braid over her shoulder. Her hands are bound up like a prize fighter’s, her arms tight with muscle. She’s dressed in man’s attire, wide-brimmed hat hiding her eyes, a six-shooter strapped against her right thigh.

“Y’all got my attention,” the woman drawls, lifting her chin to inspect the assembled strays around the table. “I’ll fight for ya. The name’s Pinelli. Leonie Pinelli. Marshal Eisner’s first and only apprentice.”

Claude raises an eyebrow. “Byleth?” he asks, and Leonie’s face screws up in disgust.

“No,” she spits. “Captain Jeralt, of course.”

Her hostility leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and he leans back in his chair, expression as guarded as ever. She’s obviously had a few drinks: he can smell it on her, and her cheeks are flush with alcohol.

“Now y’all don’t look too convinced,” she says, side-eyeing the six of them in suspicion. “The captain taught me a thing or two. Let me sweeten the deal for ya.”

Quick as a rattler her hand darts to her side, drawing her weapon and shooting out a shot glass perched on the other side of the dining hall. Claude snaps around just in time to see it explode in a hail of shattered glass, accompanied by a few shrieks from the surrounding patrons. 

Leonie basks in the stunned silence, blowing the smoke from the barrel of the gun before spinning it around in her hand and slotting it back to its holster in one fluid movement. “And that’s when I’m six pints in,” she announces, voice loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the inn. “Y’all should see what I can do when I’m sober.”

For all Claude’s problems with her attitude, he has to give it to her - she’s got skill, that much is apparent. And it seems they’re going to need all the help they can get.

“What are your terms?” he asks, still cautious.

“One condition,” Leonie replies, leaning down to his level. “You pay off my bar tab.”

Claude laughs. He can’t help himself. It’s absurd, and there’s no better word for it.

“Your tab?” he asks in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“How much is your life worth?” Leonie counters. “Reckon it’s a damn sight more than a couple a’ dollars behind the bar.”

“You’re damn right.” Claude offers his hand in agreement. “Sober up and you got yourself a deal.”

“It’s a deal.”

They finalise their plan quickly enough after that.

He talks to each and every one of his crew over the course of the afternoon, catching them when they’re alone so it’s easier to say no should they choose not to fight. Leonie is a hired gun. Her answer is simple enough. Raphael is always down for a fight, especially if it means protecting his family. Ignatz admits that he feels duty-bound to look after Raphael - the man needed constant adult supervision at the best of times - but he agrees to put his sharpshooting skills to good use. Even Marianne offers to help in the only way she knows how. Claude is surprised, to say the least, but he accepts as graciously as he can. Even if she won’t take up arms, it’s more than likely they’ll take casualties, and there’s no safer pair of hands this side of the border.

For all her earlier dramatics, Hilda was deeply hurt by his revelation, but she reluctantly agrees, provided he comes clean to her about everything. 

Which leaves only one name on his list.

The two of them stand at opposite ends of the stoop in front of the theatre, its grand doors locked up for the night. Lorenz makes sure he’s stood a step up from Claude, exaggerating his height even further. He leans back against the balustrade, one arm crossed over his chest, his other hand holding a glass of some foul-smelling liquor. It seems he’s moved from the wine onto something a lot stronger.

“You know how it is,” Claude says with a shrug. “Everyone owes me a favour. Including you, Lorenz.”

“You’re certainly… well-connected,” Lorenz admits, holding his glass by the rim. He brings his drink to his lips, but he doesn’t take a sip, not yet. This would be his fourth of the evening, not that he’s counting. “I should turn you in, you know,” he says quietly. “Word does spread rather swiftly in this town. It’d be bad for business should this get out.”

“‘Bad for business’, huh?” 

“I am merely considering the detriment to the town should your… wanted status come to light.” He looks his business partner over, then adjusts his necktie as he waits. Finely-embroidered red roses adorn the fabric, tied Ascot-style. Lorenz likes to make people wait. It makes him feel important. For once, Claude is more than happy to play along with his little game.

They stand and watch the world go by for a while. An ostler leads a pair of horses back to the stables for the night, a housewife carries a basket of laundry against her hip, shops are shuttered and doors are locked. 

The sun begins to inch lower in the sky. The shadows lengthen around them, a dark omen of what’s to come.

Eventually Lorenz is satisfied he’s made Claude wait long enough. “Oh, I couldn’t give you up to the law,” he admits. “Believe it or not, I have become somewhat fond of you.”

“Little old me?”

“Please don’t let it go to your ego,” Lorenz replies with a scowl and a shake of the head. “Your arrogance is insufferable enough as it is.” 

“I would _never--_ ”

“That’s quite enough, now, do you not think?”

“Are you gonna fight?” Claude asks, cutting him off. “Can I count on you?”

Lorenz’s gaze suddenly drops away. He fidgets with his cufflinks, nervous.

“I’m afraid I am needed on family business,” he admits. “I’ll be gone before first light, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Do one thing for me?” Claude asks, and Lorenz narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Don’t tell Lysithea. She’ll want to fight with us, but I can’t let her do that. She’s like a little sister to me.”

“And why should I care about some vagrant child?”

“You’re related.” He drops the revelation like a bombshell. “I don’t know how, but you two share the same blood.”

“How did you know--”

He taps the side of his nose, letting a tiny smile grace his face. “That’s my little secret.”

Exasperated, Lorenz shakes his head. He rubs his temples as if nursing a migraine. “In a way, you are correct, as much as I am _loath_ to admit it. But this clears my favour to you. From this day forward, I owe you nothing, do I make myself quite understood?”

Claude nods. “Crystal clear,” he says, checking the time on his watch. Not long now. “The seven forty-five to El Paso tomorrow morning,” he adds. “You make sure Lysithea gets on that train.”

“I am not a nursery maid--”

“If you ain’t gonna fight to defend this town, you gotta get her away from here. I know you’re a man of honour, Lorenz--”

"I still won't follow you."

"--and you got a good heart--"

“Flattery will get you nowhere--”

“It’s the truth, damn you!”

Claude’s final words ring out like a funeral knell. They stand in silence outside the saloon, the sound of his voice echoing away down the streets and out into the barren lands beyond. Lorenz retrieves his drink from where he’d left it on the newel of the stairs. He stares at the amber liquid for a moment before tossing his head back and draining the glass.

He flicks his hair back to its usual position, then fixes Claude with a stare sharp as cut steel.

“You have my word I’ll look after Lysithea,” Lorenz says, dry as a bone. “But I refuse to be part of this folly. I wish you the best of luck. May God protect you.”

He tips his hat in farewell and walks away without another sound.

Claude sighs to himself, dragging his hands down his face in despair. But he can’t dwell for long; as soon as one haughty retainer makes his dramatic exit, another one steps right in to fill its place.

Hilda Goneril. Who else.

She stands at the bottom of the steps, and he slowly walks down to her level while she rolls herself a cigarette. She’s changed into an evening dress of silks dyed black and pink, sporting the sort of neckline that does no good for a woman’s reputation. 

Not that she’s ever cared what others think.

Without even having to ask, Claude produces a box of matches from his pocket and summons a tiny flame in his hands. He lights the cigarette for her, and she takes a drag, blowing the smoke straight back into his face. 

“You got a promise to keep, Claude,” she reminds him.

“I know.”

“What did you do?” she asks, only just loud enough to be heard above the _huff_ of the train on the track behind them. There’s curiosity burning bright behind her eyes, an intelligence she rarely shows. “Whatever you did, it’s bad enough that you ran away and changed your name, and now there’s a thousand dollars on your head.”

Claude scowls. “How did you know about my name--”

Hilda cuts him off with a giggle. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? You can’t _really_ think anyone buys that ‘von Riegan’ crap. Come on, dummy. It’s not the dark ages.”

She’s close, but she doesn’t know everything. His secret is safe, for now.

Still, for all her teasing, Hilda is serious. And that’s never a good sign.

Unsure, Claude hesitates for a moment, planning his words carefully. Something offhand about having an air of mystery to maintain, perhaps. But she’s heard it a hundred times before, and annoyingly, she’s smart enough to know when he’s bluffing.

He goes to answer, but Hilda gets there first.

“Who’s Judith?” she asks, cutting him short. “You were calling for her in your sleep last night. She another old flame of yours?”

“An old friend.”

“Claude.” She pouts, arms folded, cigarette still balanced between her teeth. “Give me a straight answer for once in your life, goddamn it.”

He can’t put it off any longer. This has been a long time coming, and it’s finally time for him to come clean. Hilda has been his partner for years now, and if anyone deserves to know the truth, it’s her.

“I was still a boy when I ran away from home,” he starts, his eyes slowly losing focus as he dips back into the old memories. The world blurs around him. He can almost taste the sea salt in the air, hear the scream of seagulls. But no, it’s just the wind and the dust devils, and the soft background burble of the town as its people settle in for the night. Claude clears his throat again. “My ma was a trader’s daughter, born out in Colorado state. Thought I’d come see her side of the world. Got a ship into Galveston, Judith came with, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“You still ain’t told me who she is.”

_“Was.”_

“Was?” Hilda asks, and then her face falls as she realises what he’s saying. “Oh, Claude, I’m sorry--”

“It’s alright, now. Was a long time ago.”

He takes the cigarette from her, taking a deep breath of tobacco and ash.

“How did she die?” Hilda asks, and Claude stares out into the streets, trying to push back the old emotions. His foot taps erratically against the floor. Cheap cigarettes aren’t his usual sin of choice, and the taste is still bitter and unfamiliar in his mouth.

“When I first landed stateside, my family sent Judith to keep an eye on me. We travelled together, for a while. She was like a big sister to me, always on my back. Damn good fighter, though. I weren’t always this charming, see, and she got me outta more trouble than I’d care to admit.” He goes for another drag of the cigarette, flicking the ash from the end. He hopes he doesn’t pick up the habit.

Hilda watches him with wide eyes. She doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to finish. It’s not like her to be so patient, especially not with him, but they both know he won’t be doing this again. Not for a long time, at least.

“Our wagon train was attacked. Bandits, thieves, the kinda low-lifes that hide out in the barrens and prey on honest folk. Judith put up a good fight, but there were five of them and only one of her. Jumped her from behind and held her down as they slaughtered us like cattle.”

“Thought you were supposed to be a ‘master tactician’--”

“You ever been in a fight, Hilda?” he asks, and she trails off. “Real life ain’t no game of chess. You can scheme and plan, but nothing can prepare you. Things happen real fast. So when one of them tackles your friend to the floor and she tells you to shoot, you don’t think. You just point your gun and pull the trigger. But my hands were shaking. And my aim weren’t as good back then. When the smoke cleared and I saw what I’d done, I turned tail and ran.”

He’s rambling, now, his sentences running together. Claude seals his lips before he can make it any worse.

Another drag on the cigarette. Another fraught silence. It leaves him nothing to do but think back to that day; the scorching sun overhead, the huff of horses, the gunshots echoing off the walls of the canyon, impossible to work out where the enemy was coming from. Panic. Screams. The six-shooter in his hand, the scuffle of bodies in the dirt.

The scream of ‘Pull the damn trigger, boy!’, and then _‘Khalid!’_

And then awful, unending silence.

“I was scared,” he admits, little more than a whisper. “Real scared. I ran for miles. Didn’t stop ‘til I found the nearest town. I went to the lawmen, but they reckoned I was just one of them outlaws looking to get off easy. See, Judith was well-known around those parts, well-loved too. And it was my gun that shot her dead. They didn’t take none too kindly to that.”

Hilda is saying something, but Claude barely hears it. He’s pretty sure she’s offering her condolences - a rare moment of sincerity if that’s the case, but it could be anything. He finds himself staring up to the heavens, the sky above vast and endless and beginning to fill with stars.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually. “That was a lot.”

“You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for.” Hilda speaks quietly, slowly walking over to his side and wrapping her arms around his waist. They spend plenty of time in close proximity as part of their work, but this is different; now he isn’t Claude von Riegan, stage magician and illusionist, star of the show. No, he can let all of that go. He’s just Khalid, a boy who got lost a very long way from home.

Not that Hilda knows that. Not that she needs to know, either. That’s another secret for another time.

She purses her lips, still not satisfied. “A thousand bucks is a big reward, though. Too big for just one person.”

Once again, Claude raises the cigarette to his mouth, but it’s long burnt-out, just a smouldering stub between his fingers. He drops the dog-end to the floor and squashes it under his boot. “Yeah, it is,” he admits. “They accused me of everything. Thirty men and women on that train, and the sheriff said I was responsible for them all. That’s thirty counts of first-degree murder in the eyes of the law. Ain’t even got a witness to clear my name. I escaped the noose, though, and I’ve been running ever since.”

Hilda looks up at him, staring critically. It’s clear she’s trying to work out whether or not to believe the story, and Claude doesn’t dare give her reason to doubt him. He smiles to himself, but it’s more of a grimace. Even his charms are wearing thin after all that.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “my aim’s gotten a lot better since then.”

The joke falls flat.

Still, Hilda lets her head drop until it’s resting on his chest. Even in her heels, she’s barely tall enough to reach his shoulder. Her body rises and falls as she breathes, a heavy feeling that settles just above his heart.

“If I die tomorrow, Holst is gonna kill you,” she murmurs, her face pressed into his waistcoat. 

It’s not a good joke, especially not given how likely it is that they won’t see another sunset, but Claude can’t help but smile. 

“I’d expect nothing else,” he replies. He rests his chin on top of her head, reaching up to rub her back. They’ve been partners for long enough that this is nothing more than the comforting embrace of old friends, no matter what it may seem like to the outsider.

Despite the reassuring warmth of Hilda’s embrace, his thoughts are far elsewhere. He stares out the edge of town, Byleth’s words still ringing in his ears. 

_‘I’ll be back by high noon on Monday. You have my word.’_

That’s fifty-fifty on whether she’ll be back on time. But Santa Fe is a long way away, and even with a new horse at every town she stops at, Claude doesn’t know if she’ll reach him before the gang descends on the town. Mathematically, it’s possible, but that’s not saying much. 

He doesn’t like their odds if she’s not on their side. With any luck, she’ll arrive before Nemesis does. He doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen if she doesn’t.

Claude tightens his grip on Hilda’s waist. He stares out at the desert beyond. The day of his reckoning is fast approaching, and he’ll meet it when it comes.

It seems his dance with fate is coming to its long-overdue end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. Firstly, I have been absolutely _overwhelmed_ by the response on the first chapter, you guys are so good. Friendship with eagles stans is officially over, now deer fans are my best friends! Thank you all so much.
> 
> Secondly, sorry this chapter took such a long time coming - work has been difficult, and I've had to move house 🙃 But now I'm all settled again, prepare for the next chapter sometime soon (hopefully quicker than this one...) And again, if you fancy letting me know your thoughts, I'd really appreciate any feedback or concrit you have!
> 
> Have a great weekend, y'all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, so make yourself comfortable. CW for blood, injury, and shootin' aplenty.

The first light of dawn explodes across the horizon. Claude is there to watch it, his thoughts running wild.

Given yesterday’s information, Nemesis will probably be riding in from the south, crossing the bridge over Myrddin Canyon and riding into New Leicester. The highlands just beyond the town is the perfect place for the gang to make their approach from, barren and full of winding paths with plenty of places to hide. By the time Nemesis and his men come out from the highlands, Claude will only have a matter of minutes to say his prayers, make peace with his god, and start shooting. For now, he stands in the church tower, silhouetted against the sunrise and staring down at the town below.

From up here he can see three of the four cardinal points, the sunrise painting brushstrokes of colour at his back. It bathes the land in long shadows where the light can’t reach. Every flicker of movement in the darkness makes Claude flinch. He knows it’s probably nothing but the jackrabbits and desert sparrows looking for a meal, but it could just as easily be a gang of twelve men baying for his blood.

The early morning winds whip his hair around his face. Sand sweeps along the streets below, the horses huff and snort, and a stray dog scurries from house to house looking for scraps. The station is deserted this early in the morning, the line running east to west. There were only two trains running this morning: the seven forty-five to El Paso, and the eleven thirty-six all the way out to Sacramento. If Nemesis was a smart man, he’d use the train as cover for his approach.

Claude looks over the town one more time, just for good measure.

The church bell tolls seven behind him.

He descends the stairs slowly, the old wood creaking beneath his feet. What used to be a place of worship is now set up like a fortress, stockpiled with weapons and ammunition, pews dragged out of place to better provide cover in case it gets that close. He doesn’t know what the Bible’s stance is on men that turn the house of God into a battleground. Not that he’s read the book, but he doubts it’d be too complimentary.

Each of the six have their own way of dealing with the nerves. Marianne hasn’t moved from the altar for the whole time she’s been here, reciting prayers beneath her breath. Hilda cleans and polishes her weapon of choice, an eight-bore sawn-off that’s about five different kinds of illegal. Raphael and Leonie exchange crude jokes as they work, piling sandbags against the walls of the church for protection. Claude isn’t sure how effective a bag of dirt is going to be against a round of bullets, but if there’s a shadow of a chance, he has to take it. 

The light scatters through the windows, filling the church with a rainbow of colour. Ignatz stands in a shaft of sunlight, bathed in a soft green glow. Trust the kid to focus on the artwork.

Claude comes to stand at his side.

“It’s real stained glass,” Ignatz muses, staring up at the window. His eyes are shaded by the newsboy cap on his head, but there’s no mistaking his expression, one of quiet contemplation. A woman’s visage gazes down lovingly at them, surrounded by a halo of gold and green. “They say the first colonisers built it to honour the Mother of Christ,” he continues. “It would be a damned shame if anything were to happen to it. There’s so much history here, so much culture.”

Claude lies a hand on Ignatz’s shoulder. “Don’t reckon the outlaws care all that much about culture, Ig.”

“Maybe Nemesis isn’t coming.” He removes his glasses, polishes the lenses on his shirt, then pushes them back up his nose again. His usually steady hands are trembling. “Maybe it’s a folly. Maybe all this is for nothing. Maybe…”

He trails off, and Claude shakes his head in reply. “Nemesis is coming. Sure as God’s vengeance, he’ll be here.” He looks Ignatz over, just a cursory glance. Claude is no doctor, but even he can see that Ignatz is deeply troubled by all this. “Still time to back out, kid. I’m asking a lot, I know that. You put down your gun and turn away, I ain’t gonna hold nothing against you.”

Nervous, Ignatz runs his hands up and down his rifle, checking it over for the hundredth time. His body shivers at the thought, but his voice is certain. “I gave you my word. I’m not going anywhere.”

Claude lets his hand fall from Ignatz’s shoulder. He nods in thanks, but the last thing he wants is to scare the kid any further. Instead he turns his attention to Hilda, who’s making herself comfortable sat at the back of the church and eyeing up the padlocked store of communion wine. 

He tries a smile, falling back on flirting so he doesn’t have to confront the very real possibility that neither of them will make it out alive. He winks at Hilda and clicks his tongue, leaning back against the altar. “Now what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She glares at him. “Not the time, Claude,” she warns.

Nervous, she pulls her knees up to her chest. She doesn’t say anything else, just staring down at her shoes and making a point of not looking at Claude. He’s not sure if she’s genuinely lost in thought or if she wants him to ask her what’s up. So he stays quiet, waiting in unnerving silence until she’s ready to talk again.

“I’m scared,” she admits eventually, her voice trembling almost as much as her knees. Claude tries to steady her, taking the gun from her hands and setting it down on the altar. He’s not going to tell her that everything’s going to be alright, because that’s a lie. And Hilda is a perceptive one; she picks up on his hesitation, looking up at him with her best impression of a wounded deer. Her voice catches. “I wish Holst was here. He’d know what to do. I don’t wanna die, Claude.”

Forcing a sad smile, Claude thumps himself in the chest. “I’m not gonna let that happen. Not while this heart’s still beating.” They’re big words, but only time will tell if there’s any truth to them. He rests the lightest of touches against her arm, just enough to let her know he’s there. “Besides, you got grit. If anyone’s walking outta here in one piece, it’s you.”

Her expression softens a little, but that stubborn frown remains. “If I so much as break a nail…”

Claude chuckles to himself. He puts his hands up in surrender. “I know, I know. You’ll dig up my grave and kill me all over again.”

“Damn right I will.” She folds her arms and scowls, and that’s the end of the conversation. 

The train rumbles past on its way to El Paso. The morning sun inches higher in the sky. 

The church bell tolls eight.

As soon as there’s enough light to see by, Claude has one member of the party up in the tower at all times to keep an eye on the land around them. He’d initially asked Hilda, but she’d complained that staying so alert was a lot of work, and the  _ last  _ thing she’d want is for her to nod off just as Nemesis made his approach.

After a minute of pointless back-and-forth, Claude had relented and sent Leonie instead.

He does a quick once-over of the church. Most of the windows have been boarded up, the walls and parapets lined with sandbags. Thin shafts of sunlight peek through the gaps, illuminating the dust motes that dance through the air. Claude had entertained the idea of pushing the altar up against the door to act as a last-ditch barrier, but Marianne had threatened heavenly wrath down on anyone that moved the table of God. 

Now, it seems, all they can do is wait. 

The three of them now stood up in the church tower are the best marksmen of the group, those most suited to picking their targets off at long range. Claude has a sniper's natural patience and focus. Leonie had learnt her craft from Jeralt maybe seven years prior, and she’d idolised him ever since. And Ignatz was a fine sharpshooter - when he was shooting tin cans and sacks of flour, that is. In truth he hadn’t shot anything more than pigeons and the occasional mule deer. He’d never even pointed his rifle at a person, let alone shot to kill. Whether he could pull the trigger on a living, breathing man was one question Claude wasn’t too eager to find out the answer to.

Marianne sits with them, sitting with her back to the parapet. Her eyes are screwed shut, her hands clasped together, whispering her prayers so quickly that Claude can barely make out her words. The crucifix usually worn around her neck is clutched in her hands.

Eventually her prayers stop and the four of them fall into silence.

All they can do is stand and watch, keen eyes scouring the land around them for signs of Nemesis and his men. Ignatz and Leonie squint into the distance, hats pulled low to keep the morning sunlight from their eyes. The anticipation buzzes at the back of Claude’s mind like a swarm of cicadas, hanging heavy under the oppressive summer heat. A horse trots down the main street. Claude nearly jumps out of his own skin at the sound of its hoofbeats.

They don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

The church bell tolls nine.

Something has died out in the wastes. Vultures flock to the corpse, a few flying in lazy circles above, most of the others scrapping over the carrion. Even from all the way up here, Claude can hear the screeches and see the faint scuffle in the dust. Soon enough there’ll be bodies enough for the vultures to gorge themselves, no matter which way this goes. 

“Cigarette?” Leonie asks, interrupting his thoughts. She rolls a wad of tobacco into its paper with all the confidence in the world. Marianne shakes her head, Ignatz declines politely, and then Leonie’s attention is squarely on Claude.

“I don’t smoke,” he replies. “I ain’t no angel, but that ain’t my sin of choice. But thanks for asking--”

Leonie shakes her head, dismissive. “Alright, alright,” she says, backing off. “Don’t need your damn life story.” 

And just like that, they’re back to silence.

The church bell tolls ten.

Claude remembers Byleth’s words clear as day. Back by high noon on Monday, she’d promised. Still, Claude doesn’t fancy her chances of making it back on time.

Once again, he shifts his right arm to feel the weight of the blade sheathed up his sleeve. It won’t do much against twelve armed men, he knows that. But it’s his last resort should he need it. He dearly hopes he won’t.

Distantly, he wonders if all this is a wind-up, if Byleth is going to stroll back into town and laugh it off as a hoax. He can’t see that happening. Years may have passed, but even in all that time, he can’t imagine she developed a sense of humour. Besides, she’d have to be pretty fucked-up to get a kick out of something like this. No, she always was so dry, so sombre, and it was near impossible to get a laugh out of her in return. Claude remembers the first time he’d seen her smile - and every one of the rare occasions she’d done so since.

The memory brings a smile to his own lips.

Hilda pokes her head out of the stairwell. She clears her throat, and Ignatz startles, fumbling his rifle. “You got news?” she asks, stifling a yawn. “I’m bored. And Raphael is hungry.”

“No news,” Claude snaps. It sounds a little shorter than he’d like, but right now he’s got bigger things to worry about. “You’ll know when we’ve got news ‘cause it’ll get real shooty all of a sudden.”

She juts out her bottom lip, and Claude’s heart softens at the sight. “You don’t need to be so damn  _ rude, _ ” she snaps.

“Sorry,” he admits, as much as it pains him to say it. “I’m a little on edge--”

“Ain’t we all?”

He shakes his head in defeat. “I’ll have reinforcements in by midday. You reckon you can wait that long?”

Hilda folds her arms and flicks a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. She gives him a noncommittal “Yeah, sure, whatever,” before slouching back down the stairs.

Claude sighs into his hands. They wait.

The church bell tolls eleven.

Bored, Leonie rolls herself a cigarette and offers the tobacco out again. This time, Claude takes her up on her offer.

“They should be here by now,” Ignatz mutters, fretting as always. He tries to adjust his glasses, but they’re already in the perfect position, and all his fidgeting is ultimately pointless. Below them, a train pulls into the station, clouding the sky with steam and coal-smoke. The wheels screech to a halt, the engine huffing as it stalls. A dozen people disembark, chattering to each other above the engine. The air is filled with noise.

And underneath it all is the sound of hoofbeats.

It makes Claude’s heart pick up. At first he thinks it’s nothing more than the wind roaring through the highland pass, but after a few more seconds the sound is unmistakable. A rumble of hooves like a distant earthquake, using the noise of the station for cover. And as the train pulls away, it reveals the twelve riders on horseback, approaching up from the south.

One mile and closing. They’ve got three minutes at most.

“Shit!” Claude calls, balancing his rifle on the parapet and cocking the weapon. Ignatz and Leonie follow suit, and Marianne’s prayers resume twice as loudly as before.

Hands shaking, Ignatz yelps and lets off a shot. None of the riders fall.

“They’re outta range,” Leonie says, staring down the sights of her rifle. She whistles between her teeth as she judges the distance. “Not ‘less you got the steadiest hand and the best rifle in the West.”

The riders are getting ever-larger, no longer just silhouettes against the dust. Nemesis on a white horse, eleven riders behind him.

“Go for the leader,” Claude warns. His finger perches on the trigger as he tracks Nemesis’ horse. “The white horse. Any time now.”

A gunshot splits the morning air, Leonie bracing herself against the recoil.

“Nope,” she says. “Still outta range.”

“Or maybe you’re just a shit shot.” He waits another few seconds before letting off a shot of his own, aimed square at Nemesis’ chest. A cry rings out from one of the riders to his left, but all twelve men keep riding. Even compensating for the wind, Claude can’t land a shot. “Shit,” he says far too calmly, cocking the rifle again. “Fire at will--”

Another gunshot cracks through the morning air. This time, it isn’t friendly fire.

Claude ducks down behind the parapet as the shots start to ring off the church bell. The sound is deafening, a heavy  _ clang-clang _ as the bullets ricochet away. At his left hand, Leonie lets out a deranged cheer, screaming something about “This is it, boys!”

No-one else shares her enthusiasm.

Every gunshot makes Claude flinch. He braces himself, then peeks out the gap in their reinforcements, pulling the trigger before swiftly ducking back again. His hands are unsteady, though, and he doubts he could hit anything, even if he tried. At his side, Leonie whoops as she hits her mark. “Yeehaw!” she screams, before ducking back behind the sandbags to reload. “First blood, boys,” she taunts. “Anything you can do, I can do better.” 

“Dead?” Ignatz asks shakily, and in reply she pokes her finger right into the centre of Ignatz’s forehead.

“Stone cold,” she replies, a wicked grin on her face. “You fellers have got some catching up to do.”

If her intention was to terrify Ignatz, it’s working. Claude counts the shots fired up at them, rising up on cue to return fire. Leonie does the same, the two of them working in time. But Ignatz is always a second behind, too scared to make a move for himself.

Twelve - no,  _ eleven _ against three isn’t particularly fair. 

“Fancy giving us a hand, yeah?” Leonie shouts above the sound of the firefight, yelling at Marianne to even the odds. The spare six-shooter is passed over to Marianne, thrust into her hands without much of a care. “Point and shoot. Simple as. There’s five dead men in that gun,” Leonie yells, “but being a lady in our line of work? Keep the last bullet for yourself.”

Marianne just shakes her head, staring at the gun in her hands. She’s suddenly gone pale, unnervingly so. Claude can’t work out what she’s saying above the noise, but her lips say “I would only waste your ammunition.”

He hopes she won’t have to find out.

He shifts position so he’s peeking out of the gap, cocking his rifle and training his sights on Nemesis. He exhales, then lets out a shot. The wind carries it badly, and the rider to Nemesis’ left falls from his horse. Claude grits his teeth and reloads, but the wood by his face explodes in a hail of splinters and he drops to the floor again. He hisses in pain, reaching up to check the damage, but Marianne gets there first.

“You’ll be alright,” she reassures, gently pulling a stray piece of wood from where it had embedded itself into his cheek. “It’s a shallow wound. It likely won’t even scar.”

Claude tries a shaky grin. “At least I’ll die pretty, right?”

He’s cut off by another cheer as Leonie takes down another one of Nemesis’ men. “That’s two down,” she says, her competitive streak showing through. “You boys got some catching up to do.”

It’s not her brothers-in-arms she needs to worry about, though. The hoofbeats are getting louder, now, audible even above the gunshots. Ignatz gasps as he pulls the trigger of his rifle. His face contorts in shock and pain, and tears start to well in his eyes.

A sudden cold wave of fear hits Claude straight in the chest. 

“Ignatz!” he screams, terrified. He races to the kid’s side, feeling the bullets whizz past his body as he stumbles to the other side of the church tower. “Are you hurt?” he asks, grabbing Ignatz by the shoulders and looking him over. “Did you get hit?”

“I--” he says quietly, but then his words fail him. He’s got the look of a soldier still caught in the war, his eyes wide and haunted. “I can fight,” he says, but he’s shaking all over. His rifle slips from his hands. “It’s-- I’m fine. But I ain’t never killed no-one before.”

Claude doesn’t know what to say, but Marianne is there in an instant. “Go,” she says, suddenly taking charge. The usual softness in her voice is gone, replaced with the unyielding instinct of a healer to care for her patients. “You two can fight. Ignatz has done enough.”

With a nod, Claude assumes Ignatz’s position, reloading his rifle and exchanging shots with the men on the ground. He and Leonie trade gunfire for a few more seconds, their rifles doing little to deter Nemesis’ men. The church bell still rings behind them, a horrible, discordant noise that fills his ears until he can barely think. They’ve wasted enough time. Even sheltered behind the sandbags, Claude can hear the outlaws getting closer, so close they must be in the shadow of the church by now. The horses pant and snort below them, the gunshots deafeningly loud.

Checking their positions, Leonie peeks out for a second. She points her rifle at the men below, but two shots ring out before she can fire.

Leonie lets out a startled cry. Her body is thrown back by the impact.

She screams as she slams into the floor, one hand clutching her shoulder. A patch of blood spreads over her shirt, staining the brown cloth to red. Her face is screwed up in pain, her jaw clenched tight and lips pulled back in a snarl. And a bullet has grazed her cheek, leaving a deep slash across her face.

An inch higher and it would have taken out her eye.

Claude screams her name, then swears, yelling for Marianne to take over. It’s his cue to join the fighting on the ground, but he sneaks a glance at the riders in front of the church. He only gets a fraction of a second before the wooden wall explodes in another blast of splinters and gunfire, but it’s enough for him to do the maths. 

Two of Nemesis’ men have snuck off. They’ll be coming around the back.

Claude grabs his rifle and races towards the stairs, keeping low just in case. “Cover me,” he says, pointing to the other side of the tower. Sure enough, a peek below confirms his suspicions: two of Nemesis’ men have dismounted, creeping around the side of the church while their comrades kept Claude and Leonie occupied at the front. Smart. But Claude is smarter.

The shots ricochet off the church bell again, an unending wall of noise.

He charges down the stairs just as the side door opens. Desperate, he grabs the lintel above the entrance to the stairwell, swinging down and planting a two-footed kick into the man halfway up the stairs. The man goes flying back, landing on the floor below. The heavy  _ crack  _ of Hilda’s shotgun finishes the job, but the next man is already running up the stairs, his gun drawn. From this range, it’ll tear a man apart. Claude screams, grabbing the man’s arm and forcing it back. The gun goes off but the bullet pings wide. A hand wraps around Claude’s throat instead, pushing him back onto the stairs. The metal of his rifle digs into his back.

They tussle for a second. Claude lands a punch to the man’s stomach, but the returning knee to the groin makes his vision go white. In the second of weakness he takes a blow to the face, then another. His body screams in pain, but he pushes through. Claude throws the man back, just for an instant, then plants a kick into the centre of his chest.

The outlaw lands in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. His neck rocks back with a  _ snap. _

Nauseous, Claude takes a second to recover, letting out a shaky breath before getting to his feet. He has to lean on the handrail for support; his legs feel like they might give way at any time. Each step is harder than the last.

Thankfully, Hilda is waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him. Her face is a little flushed with exertion, her usually-perfect hair just a little out of place. Claude almost collapses into her arms.

“How many left?” she starts, but Claude cuts her off.

“Double-tap,” he says instinctively, still thinking about the bodies left behind. “You gotta--”

“I don’t reckon either of ‘em are gonna be getting back up again.” Hilda purses her lips and glances over at the bodies. Claude follows her gaze and instantly wishes he hadn’t.

One of the men stares upwards with blank eyes, his head all the way back, neck twisted at an impossible angle. His stare is glassy, but a little surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting death to come like this. If there was an expression on the face of the second man, Claude can’t make it out. Hilda’s shotgun has torn his face to pieces, now nothing but a bloody pulp of skin and flesh and bone.

It’s that day in the Red Canyon all over again. The screams ring in his ears, the thunder of hoofbeats, the smell of gunsmoke and blood. He’s seventeen years old. He’s surrounded by bodies. Judith is screaming for him to  ‘ Pull the damn trigger, boy!’,  and then  _ ‘Khalid!’ _

“We’ll deal with the bodies later,” Hilda says, putting one hand under his chin and turning his face back to hers. “Hey,” she adds with a click of her fingers, “snap out of it, yeah? How many we got left?”

Claude lets out a shaky breath, staring into her eyes. As Hilda always does, she’s seeing how much work there is to do, and scheming of a way to palm it off onto something else. Oh, she’ll never change. There’s something very reassuring about that, and Claude shakes his head, trying to pull himself together.

“Six,” he says quietly. “Five more, and Nemesis.”

“We got incoming!” Raphael interrupts, and Hilda scurries to her position. Claude had briefed them both four times over to get the positioning into their thick skulls, and it seems that something had finally sunk in for once. Now he stands at the end of the church aisle. Either side of the door, Hilda and Raphael lie in wait, protected by a heap of sandbags on either side. Hilda has her shotgun cocked and ready in her hands; the only weapons Raphael needs are his fists.

Claude reloads his rifle, and then the church doors slam open.

He’s stood in plain view, arms out in challenge. It’s a risk, but it’s one that he has to take. There are still six men out there, and with the casualties that his friends have already taken, it’s up to the three of them to finish the job.

Sure enough, a pair of figures appear in the doorway, hands hovering above their guns. 

Claude raises his rifle, calling to Nemesis’ men. “Y’all best not get too comfortable,” he warns, putting on his best stage voice to try and draw their attention. “Ladies and gents, I do believe the show is about to begin. Put down your weapons and we’ll settle this nice and peaceful--”

A rider barges between the men, spurring the horse straight between the pews. Claude lets off a panicked shot, ducking the bullet aimed for his head. A startled shout fills the air as Raphael pulls the man from his horse, then the  _ crack  _ of Hilda’s shotgun as she finishes him off. But they can’t sit back, no. The other two outlaws are hot on their partner’s heels.  Glass shatters around them as the windows are shot out, those colours filling the air once more. Claude trades shots with the men left outside while Raphael and Hilda deal with the intruders. A pair of gunshots ring out, the wet-sounding  _ crunch  _ of a broken nose, and then a squeal.

“Hilda!”

“Raph, wait--”

Claude reaches to hold Raphael back, but he’s too late. Raphael only has time to look up before a horse charges into him at full gallop, sending him sprawling to the floor. 

“Shit,” Claude hisses, just as the rider catches sight of him. He snaps his gun up and shoots the horse. Its rider lands in a heap beneath it. He aims at the woman lying on the church floor and pulls the trigger--

The gun jams.

Claude grits his teeth and races back behind the altar. He tries to force the rifle in his hands, but the round is stuck in the chamber, and no matter how hard he shakes the weapon, it won’t come free. The church doors swing open again. Behind him, nailed boots click against the wooden floor, the  _ clink  _ of spurs giving away their movement.

“You gents wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?” Claude asks, raising his voice to try and cover the noise as he desperately tries to loosen the round in the chamber. His hands are starting to tremble, the nerves getting to him. “My rifle stuck, see. Paid thirty dollars for the damn thing and everything. Always knew that salesman was a crook.” The round springs free, and Claude is quick to reload, still rambling away. “Guess you can’t trust no-one these days, huh--”

“Strawberry blonde,” comes a voice, then the  _ click _ of a revolver being cocked. Claude’s heart stops working then and there. “Such a pretty colour,” the voice continues, low and gravelly. “Such a pretty girl. Shame she won’t be so pretty by the time my boys are done with her.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Claude warns.

The reply comes quick and assured. “You’re in no position to be giving orders. Come out and the girl gets to live."

He closes his eyes and lets his head rock back against the altar. If anything happens to Hilda, he’ll never forgive himself. He’d made a promise.

The sound of footsteps gets louder as Nemesis walks up towards him, cornering the sacrificial lamb. This is how Claude dies: thousands of miles from home, wrongly accused of a crime he didn’t commit, kneeling at the altar of a god he doesn’t believe in. What a sorry end to his strange little tale.

That voice rings out again, almost sing-song. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” It’s accompanied by the sound of Hilda’s body being dragged across the floor, the  _ swish _ of her dress and the scrape of her heels.

There’s three of them left. Claude has been counting. The odds aren’t good, but it’s a risk he’s going to have to take.

Hands raised, he gets to his feet. His rifle is stashed behind the altar at his right hand should he need it. If he tries anything, though, there’s a good chance Hilda won’t make it out. Claude is good at misdirection, and there’s no man faster on the draw, but he can’t risk three against one. Not when it’s Hilda at the end of a gun.

“I’m getting up,” he warns. “Don’t touch the lady, yeah?”

He stands, his hands behind his head. One of Nemesis’ men has Hilda in a chokehold, but she’s dead to the world regardless. The other is getting to her feet from where Claude had shot the horse out from underneath her. But Claude’s attention is on the man walking up the aisle. 

Nemesis stands tall and broad, his bare chest daubed in streaks of blood. His hair and beard are long and bedraggled, dirty from weeks out in the wastes. The gun at his hip is still in its holster. And his eyes are empty of all feeling, not a scrap of emotion in his expression. 

His voice is a low growl. “Leave your weapon and face me like a man.” 

“At least tell me why,” Claude asks. If he’s going to die, he might as well know the reason. He kicks his rifle across the floor, raising his hands. “Why come after me?”

Nemesis scowls. “My employer put a lot of money on bringing you in.”

“This is about  _ money?” _

He nods in reply. “Isn’t everything?”

“No, I don’t buy that.” The irony is painfully bitter. Claude spits to the floor, disbelieving. “Not for a thousand dollars. Split that twelve ways, you got next to nothing. Bigshot outlaw like you, eighty-five dollars apiece ain’t worth shit. You can take me in. But you owe me the truth _. _ ”

“You ever heard of a man called Arundel?” Nemesis asks, and Claude shakes his head. “Not many have. See, you’re a troublemaker, Khalid. And my employer wants you dead.”

Claude shrugs. The sharp reply falls out before he can stop it. “I’ve read the wanted posters,” he says, calm and indifferent. “It’s ‘Dead  _ or  _ alive’ actually--”

One of Nemesis’ men cuts him off. “Dead. This order don’t come from Rhea.”

“Then who--  _ why? _ ”

The floorboards creak beneath Nemesis’ heavy tread as he approaches. Claude isn’t a tall man, and the outlaw towers a foot above him, staring down with the cold eyes of a mountain lion going in for the kill. 

“Don’t know,” he spits, then grabs Claude by the throat. “Don’t care.”

Claude struggles against Nemesis’ grip as the oxygen is forced from his lungs. He gasps for air, but nothing comes, frantically grasping at Nemesis. Nothing Claude does has any effect. Stars dance in his vision. His sight is slowly going white. 

And then come the sound of hoofbeats.

She’s here.

“And that’s your cue to leave,” Claude chokes, barely more than a whisper as his air runs out. “By the word of Federal Marshal Eisner--”

A white horse charges in through the shattered window, both riders firing wildly in all directions. Claude’s heart sinks as they take the men around Nemesis in a hail of gunfire. 

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, ever the nobleman, calling in at the final hour

“No,” Claude whispers. Not a sound comes out.

Lysithea is perched behind Lorenz on the saddle, screaming for Claude to run. She covers Lorenz’s six, shooting the man on the ground reaching for his gun. She jumps from the horse, dragging Hilda to safety behind the altar. Despite the chaos, her focus is absolute.

And in the middle of it all, calm as still water, Nemesis raises his gun in his free hand and shoots Lorenz’s horse straight through the skull.

The animal collapses to the floor, sending Lorenz head over heels. Lysithea is pushed to one side, too, landing in a heap behind the pews. Nemesis slams Claude against the church wall, then tosses him to the floor like a sack of flour. He hears the  _ snap  _ of a rib before he feels it, a sharp ache dulled by adrenaline. Before Claude can react a swift kick to the ribs forces any last air from his lungs. He doubles over, winded, every breath like fire consuming his chest from the inside.

Blood drips into his eyes. His head is spinning.

Nemesis drags Lorenz back to the altar by his feet. “Gloucester’s boy,” comes the sneer. “What a strange calibre of friends you keep.” One of Nemesis’ hands grabs Claude’s hair, the other still holding Lorenz at the wrong end of a gun. “Hands up, Khalid. On your knees or I’ll shoot them out.”

Claude is yanked up by the hair, his chest still burning. The pain is almost too much to bear, but he struggles breathlessly on. He screams as Nemesis yanks his hands back behind his head, the small movement making his chest feel like it's being torn in half.

He can barely think straight as his wrists are tied tight together. But the cold metal of the blade up his sleeve grounds him, giving him something to hold onto.

He’s a stage magician, after all. He’s always got an ace up his sleeve.

Hands still behind his head, Claude lets the knife slide into his palm. He can’t make a move, not without putting his friends’ lives in danger. But he can’t wait any longer. And they don’t call him the schemer for nothing.

With a flick of his wrist, he brandishes the knife, stabbing it into Nemesis’ shoulder.

Nemesis howls in pain. He pulls away too fast for Claude to react; he scrabbles for the knife but his fingers only brush the edge of the hilt. The blade slips from his grasp. Behind them, Lorenz yells something incoherent, but Claude doesn’t hear what he’s saying. The adrenaline is burning fast and hot inside him, and he’s not sure how much longer he can stay on his feet.

What he  _ does  _ hear is Nemesis’ voice, low and shaky and hissed into Claude’s ear. That hand tangles back in his hair, dragging him backwards towards Lorenz, who is cowering under Nemesis’ gun.

“An arm for an arm?” Nemesis spits. “Very well. You shall have your wish.”

Claude braces himself, but Nemesis stamps down on Lorenz’s arm instead. The snap of breaking bones is drowned out by the scream. It’s all over in an instant. Shaken, Lorenz risks a glance at his arm. The colour drains from his face at the sight.

“Oh, my,” he says quietly, and then his eyes roll back in their sockets as he passes out.

Nemesis takes another step over towards Lorenz, dragging Claude with him. He lets one of his boots rest against Lorenz’s face, before leaning down to whisper in Claude's ear. “Try me again and I’ll crush his skull--”

“Don’t hurt him!” a high voice calls. Claude’s heart sinks. Lysithea may only be twenty years old, but she’s got the infallible confidence of youth on her side. No matter how assured she seems, though, her confidence is misplaced.

Nemesis growls. “Move and I’ll shoot you,” he spits.

“I’ll shoot  _ you, _ ” Lysithea replies, defiant. Her face is scrunched up into a scowl, one eye closed as she squints down the sights. She stands with her feet planted shoulder-width apart, both hands wrapped around the grip and holding on for dear life. And her finger is trembling on the trigger, a hair’s breadth from squeezing too hard.

Not that it matters. She’s still got the safety on.

Claude’s blood turns to ice as Nemesis starts to laugh, a low chuckle that echoes off the church walls. He yanks Claude up by the hair again, using his body as a shield. His boots scrabble against the floor. “Is your aim really that good, little girl?” Nemesis asks, condescending. The muzzle of his own gun presses painfully hard into the back of Claude’s skull. “You want to gamble with his life? Be my guest. He’s dead either way.”

“Please,” Claude whispers, his voice strained. “Lys, just put it down. Walk away. This ain’t-- ain’t your fight. Don’t get yourself killed on my watch.”

Lysithea’s conviction falters, if just for a second, and Nemesis laughs again at the sight. “Didn’t think so,” he says, dangerously low. “Put the gun down.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Lysithea orders, but there’s nothing in it. She lowers the gun onto the bench. Then, slowly, she raises her hands. “Please--”

Nemesis growls. “Good girl.”

“Run,” Claude says, at the end of the line. His voice finally breaks as he screams “Go, Lys!” at her, hardly hearing himself speak. His eyes start to blur with tears as he watches her disappear out the door, sending him one last look before she goes. Her eyes are wide, her expression unsure, looking every inch the child he knew.

And then she’s gone.

Claude blinks back the tears. He’s not going to cry. No, there’s a chance his friends might still make it out of this in one piece. Hilda, Lorenz and Raphael are no threat to anyone. At the top of the church tower, Ignatz, Marianne and Leonie are safely holed up and armed to defend themselves. And if Lysithea has any sense, she’ll turn tail and run, grab a horse and ride across the border where she can find somewhere safe to lie low.

If she  _ did  _ have any sense, she would have got on the seven forty-five train this morning instead.

Nemesis tears the blade from his arm and lets out a harsh grunt. The knife clatters to the floor, out of reach. With his other hand, he pulls Claude’s hair back, forcing him to bare his throat. He can feel blood dribbling down the side of his face, caking in the collar of his shirt. “So many willing to die for you. So much pointless death. I can see why my employer wants you out of the picture.”

“Don’t say that,” Claude says through gritted teeth, barely holding back the emotion. Grief rises in his throat, choking him.

“Say your prayers, kid--”

The church bell tolls twelve.

He looks to the sky, and just for a second, the gun at the back of his skull lets up. “Would you look at that, kid?” Nemesis says. “Maybe it’s a sign from God.”

_ High noon on Monday. _

Byleth is too late. Or maybe she was never coming at all.

“You let them all go, alright?” Claude whispers, voice wavering. “You don’t touch any of them.”

Maybe it’s the ghosts of his past coming to get what they’re owed; he’s been running from death for far too long, and now it’s finally caught up to him. His heart seizes up. He’s too young for this. He’s barely twenty-three years old, and already it’s all coming to a close. 

The music swells, the audience applauds, the curtain falls. 

Exit stage left.

“I won’t touch them,” Nemesis replies. That sharp pain reappears at the base of Claude’s skull as the gun is jammed there again. “Or maybe I will. Shame you won’t be around to watch.”

“Please,” Claude says. He’s not too proud that he won’t beg, the last wishes of a man condemned to death. He squeezes his eyes shut, his adam’s apple trembling as he breathes his last. “Please,” he whispers. “You got what you came for. You don’t need to touch anyone else--”

A gunshot splits the quiet inside the church. A body drops to the ground.

And then everything falls silent.

Or rather, the body drops onto Claude, who drops to the floor with it.

After a second or two he opens his eyes, just to make sure he’s still alive. Nemesis is  _ heavy,  _ and it takes him far too long to push the corpse aside. Claude is covered in blood, and lots of it, and he checks his body down just in case. Most of the blood isn't his own. And if the sharp pain in his chest is anything to go by, his soul is still in his broken body.

Which means he’s alive.

_ He’s alive. _

The tears almost come all over again.

Once again, there’s a figure in the entrance to the church, the sunlight silhouetting her against the world outside.

Byleth is still atop her horse, six-shooter held at arm’s length. She spins the gun around one finger before tucking it back into her holster. “High noon on Monday, remember?” she calls, dismounting her horse and slowly walking over to meet him. She smiles down at Claude, still sprawled on the floor. He has to shield his eyes against the light with his hand, squinting up at her. She takes her hat from her head, revealing a brow shining with sweat and eyes dark with lack of sleep. But she’s here, alive and in the flesh.

No amount of pretending can hide the relief etched into his face, the wide smile that shines through before he can stop it. “Ha,” he says, not really a laugh but a short exhale, his brain too addled to form a coherent thought. He feels exhausted, like he’s just run five miles across the desert in the midday heat. “Did I die and go to heaven?” he asks with a grin. “‘Cause right now I got an angel looking down on me.”

“You’re alive,” comes the reply, deadpan as ever.

Claude snorts. Hands still tied above his head, he looks over to the corpse at his side. “Yeah, just about,” he says, winded. A strange mix of relief and exhaustion runs through his veins. “No thanks to you. Took your damn time, teach.”

“I rode through the night to get here.”

“You couldn’t have gotten here five minutes earlier--”

“And not even a ‘thank you’ for my trouble,” Byleth adds. Claude isn’t quite sure if she’s teasing or not. Still, she offers him a hand. He takes it gratefully, dragging himself to his feet. Byleth reaches for the knife at her belt, using the blade to slice open the ropes tying his hands. She moves like she’s freeing an injured animal from a trap.

A small voice sounds “Ahem?” from behind them, and Claude looks over Byleth’s shoulder to the girl waiting impatiently in the doorway.

“Lysithea showed me the way,” Byleth says impartially.

Claude nods in acknowledgement, rubbing his wrists to try and ease some of the circulation back into his hands. “Thanks, kid.”

For once, she doesn’t seem to mind.

It takes them the best part of half an hour to regroup. The lawmen had been distracted by a decoy out west, arriving back in New Leicester in time to find eight people sat outside the church. They’re bruised, battered and bleeding - but  _ alive.  _ Around them are twelve bodies covered in white sheets, three dead horses, and a small cache of weapons that’ll fill the sheriff’s office twice over.

And stood in front of them is Federal Marshal Eisner with a flawless cover story and the mother of all poker faces.

Exhausted, Claude sits on the steps of the church and watches it all unfold around him. He pulls the cravat from around his neck and wipes the blood from his face, pressing the white fabric to the cut in his hairline. Hopefully it won’t scar too badly. He’ll cope just fine without his good looks to serve him, but it’s not something he wants to give up too soon.

The others are fine. At least, they’re as fine as they can be, given the circumstances. Hilda is making a big deal about how much pain she’s in, which Claude knows is bullshit - he’s seen her shrug off far worse. Just this once, though, he’ll let her get away with it. Raphael and Lorenz have both come around, the latter trying his hardest not to look at the useless mess that is his left arm. He’s always been pasty, but now his skin appears a strange shade of pale grey.

Marianne is tending to him as best she can, placing his shattered arm into a splint and binding it tight. Her face is the very picture of concern. Lorenz tries to mask the pain, but he’s never been one for hiding his feelings. As Marianne adjusts the bandages his eyes go wide and he lets out a startled shriek.

“Lorenz?” she asks, uneasy, but he catches her wrist with his one working hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

“Please, do not trouble yourself,” he says quietly, his voice shaken. Surprisingly enough, he’s not making it about himself. “You are doing a most admirable service. When I set my eyes upon such beauty and grace, I am assured I’m in the safest of hands.”

“No,” she whispers. “I’m just standing in for a doctor. I’ll probably do you more harm--”

“Nonsense, my dearest Marianne,” he counters. He kisses her knuckles again, then the pads of her fingers. Claude’s heart leaps at the sight of Marianne letting the tiniest of smiles show, her cheeks taking on a slight flush. “Your kindness may have saved me the use of my arm,” Lorenz reassures her. “Your skill as a physician is testament to your splendid character. And nothing brings me joy more than seeing your lustrous beauty shine through when you smile-- ah!”

Marianne pulls the bandages tight and Lorenz falls silent. He looks up at her as if he’s been in the dark all his life and he’s finally gazing upon the sun. 

Claude averts his eyes before it can get too personal.

Hilda is sulking, and Lysithea stands with her hands on her hips giving out instructions that nobody is following. Leonie watches her reflection in the shop window, inspecting her fresh wounds. “Aw, hell,” she says excitedly, turning her face one way, then the other. “This is gonna scar real bad. Just like Captain Jeralt.”

Byleth frowns at that, but her expression softens when Claude lies a hand on her arm. “Leave it,” he whispers, every word a struggle. His body is aching all over from the beating he’s just endured, and he’s in no hurry to be breaking up fights.

Ignatz and Raphael take shelter in the shadow of the church. “I just want to go home,” Ignatz admits, holding back the fear in his voice. He leans his head on Raphael’s shoulder. The two of them sit in silence for all of about ten seconds until Raphael decides he’s hungry and slouches off in search of food. Ignatz goes to follow, but Lysithea catches him by the elbow instead, offering to walk him home.

The rest of them part soon enough: Lorenz and Leonie to the physician’s office for their wounds, Marianne leading Dorte by the nose and talking quietly to the horse as she heads out towards her uncle’s ranch. Hilda takes her leave with the claim she has “The biggest bruise in the world, Claude, I can’t be seen out looking like  _ this. _ ” She pecks a kiss to his cheek as she goes, then winks at Byleth as if to say  _ ‘hands off - he’s mine’ _ .

Claude sighs, running a hand through his hair as he watches her go.

Byleth comes to sit at his side, replacing her hat on her head and sitting shoulder to shoulder with him as he looks over his friends going their separate ways. They sit in silence for a bit, watching the time pass. But Byleth isn’t one for pointless hanging around: she lies a hand on his arm before getting back to her feet. Claude reaches for her hand, trying to pull her back to him.

“You could stay, you know,” he offers, entwining his fingers with hers before she can disappear again. “And I believe you owe me a game of cards.”

She shakes her head, still looking him dead in the eye. “I gotta be on my way,” she says, nothing but certainty in her words. They both know he cheats at poker anyway.

“Come on,” Claude pleads. “Don’t make me get on my knees and beg. For old times’ sake.”

She just stares back, that strange, enigmatic stare that makes Claude’s stomach turn. As always, Byleth says a lot by saying very little indeed. Her stare is more than enough. It’s the same look she’d given him in the church tower years earlier. And now they’re sat in the shadow of the very same church where they’d made that promise. He’s a little older, a little wiser, and a whole lot prettier than he was as a boy.

But despite all that time, his feelings haven’t changed one bit.

Claude frowns. “What business is so urgent that you can’t even catch up with an old friend, huh? Don’t tell me Rhea’s got you running errands again. You’re better than that.”

“I have my orders,” she replies. Claude cuts her off before she can say anything more, his voice a whisper.

“Just one night. What do you say, Teach?”

The ghost of those old memories graces her face, just for a moment. The nod of her head is barely-visible, her arms unfolding and dropping back to her sides. She clasps his hand in hers. 

“One night,” she agrees, her lips turning up into a smile. “Suppose we got a lot of catching up to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a long time coming, huh? Sorry to those of you who've been waiting. As always, if you have any thoughts/concrit, it'd be mighty fine if you could drop a comment down below.
> 
> Thanks for your patience. Take care, y'all 🤠


End file.
